Writing leaves a residue in you, an echo of the words you’ve just constructed and released. You need to let that echo sound itself out, dissolve and break up in the ether, and let the stillness and silence return before more words come. Let that liquid, sticky residue sink into your bones. Perhaps it’s the ego? It feels like the ego. You bask in the sweet feeling of words written, published, shared. You accomplished something! It feels good. Almost like the come down of climax. Isn’t it interesting that the French call an orgasm la petit mort, a little death? And how death and birth are so opposite and so similar. A natural death is peaceful, a natural birth is painful. Yet we fear death and rejoice in birth. Birthing is a process, to be born is a process that once done cannot be undone. Birth is change, is something new coming from something old. Death is a final exhale, a letting go, finding peace in a good bye. Every piece of writing is a life, is lived from birth to death. We are born on an inhale, we die on an exhale. A complete breath is the same as a life: a birth, an inhale, some stuff happens in the middle, an exhale, a death. It’s what happens in between that counts, and the quality of every single breath you take during. May your breathing remind you of your birth. May your breathing remind you of your death. May both be sweet. These words are half formed, still taking shape but ending. Britain is bombing Syria and some words are exhaled and die. I am done here.